2012.10.10

These pants (and the next, and the next after that; it's been a week of pants around here) have all kinds of, em, idiosyncrasies. Which is sewing-speak for questionable technique. Double hems, where I forgot I'd added inches. Seams that don't seem to want to meet up. Cuffs that vary in width, front to back. And side to side. And inch to inch. Waistbands that involve a serious change in elevation, higher at the sides, lower in the center. I still can't figure out why this wants to happen. Only that it isn't me. The waistband wills it to be so.

Whatever you do, don't turn them inside out.

Not that you could.

They're moving too fast.

Because, for all their (shall we say) irregularities, they do check one simple box. The pants work. This cannot be said of all pants. Particularly pants for young-ish girls.

Why are young-ish girl pants so problematic? So fashion-forward, so function-backward? Since when did flare legs, tight on top, trippy at the bottom, make for great fun on the tumbling mat? And how exactly does that darling daisy button at the waist, awful even for strong adult fingers to fasten, aid a young kiddo bent on independence? And explain to me, EXPLAIN TO ME, how skinny jeans make sense for the preschool set??

We got fed up, Zoë and I.

We got mad. And then we made pants. (Albeit idiosyncratic pants.) Pants that are long on comfort, and big on ease of use, and entirely devoid of frippery. Pants that can be pulled on in a jif, and changed in a wink, and worn anywhere, everywhere. I'm sure she would appreciate a pocket. I've no doubt she would love a sweet detail. Button trees. Embroidered bunnies. Appliquéd roses. Alas, I am still stuck in seam allowance territory. Such is sewing when it takes three tries to simply not stitch the legs together. Such are pants when your PR is that your finished garment survives its first wash. Intact.

(It is not that she doesn't like cute; she does. She loves the unicorns and the flowers and the twinkles. Babies, big eyes, anything tiny. She loves the suite of seven she received on her third birthday from a friend who correctly assessed she was seriously wanting in the princess department. She just wants to be able to get down, on the ground, and get those princesses lined up right, you know?)

Cute, then. But accomodating cute. Cute that enables running and jumping, sweeping and climbing, hula-hooping and apple-peeling. Cute that isn't bothered by piglet-cooing or turkey-viewing, corn-grinding or pine-needle-kicking. Cute that has no comment when it's time to flop, *PLOP*, flat on the floor, to draw a turtle or build a kingdom or fill in the [free-spirited/when-the-spirit-catches-you/idea-of-the-moment] blank. Unconstrained, unencumbered, unbounded cute. Cute that takes into account play, that basic work of childhood.

I think the word is comfortable.

That's this week's work, cutting out comfortable. A job I intend to get back to, post-haste. Right after we discuss stuffed zucchini.

I know, I know, it's butternut season, and the zucchini's all but done. I intended to get to it sooner, truly, it's just that my head was bent over my Bernina. But just to be sure, I checked the market last weekend, and by golly if summer wasn't still hanging on. (I offer, as evidence, exhibit A below. Turns out tomatoes are excellent pattern paperweights.) It won't be long now, but you might squeak a batch. And if not, know I use this same formula for peppers, which are fairly reliable the year round. Know, also, I've been tweaking and testing and refining this for the better part of ten years. Like a length of Liberty, it's a real keeper; just tuck it into your stash.

If I sound like I'm procrastinating, I am; I wasn't kidding about not examining this one up close. Were it a face, this dish would be deemed one which "only a mother could love." Rugged, maybe. Rustic, possibly. A radioface, definitely. Certainly not a head-turner.

That's okay. Stuffed zucchini may not be a looker, but done right, it's one one heckuva keeper.

I want to plumb that "done right" bit a moment, because therein lies the difference between bland watery awful, and a dinner with substance and savor to spare. Zucchini is what I think of as neutral food, like tofu and chicken breasts and eggplant. Neutral is not bad; neutral is latent, waiting, potential, a wide open stage on which to dance. Too often, zucchini is stuffed because it can be, because would you LOOK at that perfect boat shape? Or because it must be (see: legendary glut). Or because everyone else is (bridge-jumpers, unite!). Might as well stuff a penny loafer, and move on to real food.

Here, however, is good reason to stuff zucchini, or pattypan, or those funny little roly-poly cannonballs: because their neutral-ness equals opportunity, sweet tender foil for a wild riot of a filling. Mild-mannered has no place, inside squash. Only bold and bright need apply.

Let's get detailed: You want aromatics, by which I mean onion, sautéed until golden and almost all gone. You want cooked grains, from last night or the freezer, slowly coated in onion-y oil. Brown rice is my favorite, for its bounce and chew, but farro or barley are also grand. White rice, only if you must. You may or may not want a bit of ground beef, but I do, for its depth, warmth and oomph. (If you do not, chickpeas, toasted pine nuts and extra cheese make for a pretty fine substitute.) You definitely want tomatoes, cooked down until jammy, plus the squash detritus left over from the hollowing. You most definitely want to add each of these when, and only when, its predecessor has been absorbed, building strata of intense, concentrated flavor. Think layering. Just like fall. Season as you go. Taste as you go. And then, remember the most important part:

Add fresh herbs. Lots of fresh herbs. Herbs by the fistful, the handful, the cup-full. Herbs enough to raise even Yotam's eyebrows. Think greens, instead of garnish, when imagining the quantity. Oodles and oodles of fresh green herbs. Parsley, basil, mint, chives, thyme. At least two. All four is fine. The main thing is you want their vim, their flash and dazzle, invigorating the whole. They cook down, and mellow, but only to a point, key to the mild shell's counterpoint.

About those shells, those original zucchini: they don't ask much, just smart salting and slow baking. Dust each scraped squash generously with salt, remembering this is the end of their seasoning, and commit to a slow, patient hour in the oven, which has the most magnificent effect on squash. Zucchini and its brethern, baked low and slow, cook, yes, but also transform. They become, in an hour, sweeter, and tender, so tender they can be eaten with a spoon. So tender the word melting comes to mind. So tender, you might even forgive, or at least fork right past, their homely countenance.

Stuffed Zucchiniadapted over a lifetime of zucchini love

The slow building of flavors is inviolate, here. The ingredient list is not. This works just as well for peppers as zucchini, mincing the caps (instead of zucchini innards) to flesh out the filling. Similarly, I'll often swap ground lamb for the beef, and trade in two cups of fresh mint for the basil. Use feta, if you go this route. Use your imagination, and travel others.

Slice stem plus just enough top (1/4-1/3) to create an opening from small squash, or halve baseball bat, if using. Set tops aside. With a small strong spoon, scoop soft insides from squash, leaving a 1/2" rim on all sides. Set insides aside, with stems. If using a grand zucchini, leave a 1" rim. Settle your squash into a baking dish that fits them comfortably, but without too much room to rattle around. A 9x13" casserole works nicely. Sprinkle the teaspoon of salt evenly over all.

In a large, wide skillet, over a hottish medium, heat olive oil until shimmering. Tip in the diced onion, plus two pinches of salt, and sauté, stirring occasionally, until translucent, 8-10 minutes.

While the onion is cooking, take your zucchini scraps, and chop-chop-chop them to a fine dice. I use the tops as well, trimmed of their actual stems. If using an enormous, elder statesman zucchini, discard the thready core and large, tough seeds, and chop the surrounding solid flesh. Set chopped squash aside.

Add ground beef or lamb, stir well to coat, and cook, stirring occasionally, until cooked through and browning in spots, 10 minutes. When meat is cooked, spoon off much of the fat, leaving 2 tablespoons to finish off the filling. Add leftover rice (or other grain) to the skillet, and stir, cooking, 2-3 minutes. Add 1 teaspoon salt, chopped zucchini flesh, and diced pepper, if using, and cook 8-12 minutes, until zucchini has released its water and cooked down and consolidated itself. Add the chopped tomato, stir to coat, and cook 10-12 minutes, until the juices have been absorbed and tomatoes have relaxed, darkening and melting a bit into the rice and veg.

Taste your filling: is it well-seasoned? There are no herbs, so it won't be bright, but it should be deeply savory and round and a touch jammy. Seasoning the filling is essential, as the shells depend on it to carry the flavor. Add enough salt and pepper to make your filling deeply more-ish, then a pinch or two more, to lend to the shells.

Add your thyme leaves, and stir to combine. Add your chopped leafy herbs (basil, parsley, mint, if using), and stir to combine. Take the skillet off the heat, taste one last time, and adjust seasoning, as needed.

Scoop filling into shells, making a nice rounded heap, and apply a good smattering of sharp cheddar to each. Add a splash of water to the pan, a few tablespoons, to give a steamy start. Any leftover filling can be tucked into a stray pepper, or baked in a small ramekin, or eaten as is. Cover baking pan with foil that is tented slightly, so as not to muddle with the cheese, and place in the preheated oven.

Bake at 350° for 45 minutes-60 minutes, until squash shells are completely soft and tender to the knife-tip. Time will vary depending on squash size; I have had baseball bats take close to 90 minutes. When squash is fully tender, remove foil from top, turn heat to 425°, and bake another 10-15 minutes, until cheese goes golden and bubbly on top. Let cool slightly, 10 minutes, and eat.

These re-heat exceptionally well. I've also been known to freeze a tray or three.

****

Sewing Tidbits: The lovely Meg, at Elsie Marley, is hosting her semi-annual Kids' Clothing Week Challenge this week. My pants production actually began late last week, and came about independently, to fill gaps in a certain someone's wardrobe. But given the serendipity, and a stash of gorgeous cottons from my mum, I'm taking KCWC as the kick in the pants it is to see if we can also dope out a top. We will see.

The pants are all cut from one pattern, which hails from this book, which mostly contains clothes I can't actually imagine sewing. Or wearing. But the pants pattern is exquisitely simple, and the directions, very clear, and for that, I consider it priceless

2012.08.27

My camera broke last week. Last Thursday, specifically. Two days after we returned from Seattle. It was not a particularly spectacular break. No "camera overboard!" cries, off a Washington State Ferry. No minute-long falls from atop the orange Needle. It was all rather dull, in the event, one photo of a flower that sounded a little odd. Less *click!*, more *cli-grrrrr.

And then, nothing.

Well, not nothing, exactly. The small screen displayed ERR, where the f-stop once was. I think, technically, ERR stands for
Error. But ERR seemed spot-on, no elaboration necessary. As in, "If you think I've any intention of snapping another, you ERR, you silly, silly girl."

(Camera humor. Dark, stubborn stuff.)

(Seattle public art. Wacky, wonderful stuff.)

But after the usual Fudges and Fiddlesticks, it occurred to me to
think, oh, thank goodness. Thank goodness it didn't break, say, two days
earlier, while we were wrapping our Seattle stay. Or worse, two weeks earlier, when our trip had just begun.

And then, approximately 9 seconds later, I thought, what would it
have mattered? Really?

It wouldn't have.

Mattered.

Really.

Because every trip we take back is very much like the other, and each very much like the life we left behind, and not very much like I think most see Seattle.

It dawned on me, this time around, that Seattle has grown up (again). Has become (is becoming) ever-denser, -bigger, -hipper. Not as hip as Portland, say. (Far too few food trucks, far too much traffic.) But hip enough to have this weird caché, that perplexes and amuses me in equal measure.

Seattle, to me, is that stellar friend, successful, smart, funny,
fun, witty and good, whom you've known since before all that. Since really bad hair cuts and truculent pimples and that truly unfortunate neon biking short phase. Since you were
just you, and they were just them, and the both of you were plain old vanilla nobodies.

(Before vanilla was loaded with bean flecks. Or fancy prefixes like "Premium" and "French".)

That's the Seattle I know, love and crave, the one I long to return to each year. The slug-studded hikes through old neighborhood parks, where Banana versus European Red counts qualify as entertainment. Concrete-colored beaches, barnacled, treacherous, driftwood-rich, pebble-generous. Utterly marvelous. The still-thrilling rush of a ferry's front deck. Whiskery air, salt-prickled and crisp. Honey Bear chocolate peanut butter layer cake, four stories high, four star-worthy.

(Man does not live on Voxx coffee alone. Close, very close. But not quite completely.)

The hush and the dense and the weight of those forests, stippled with sunlight, achingly green. Those forests where Sasquatch seems not only possible, but probable, perhaps even perfectly normal. Where the colors are muted and the hues, so hushed, it seems someone turned down the dimmer switch. (I've never been much one for jewel tones, which I've always chalked up to my pale complexion. It occurred to me, this recent visit, that maybe it was just my native surroundings.)

Except for those days the blue's bright, the sun blinding. Seattle struts its stuff, come August.

Building epic sand cities with whatever's around. Imagineering ships from root balls on empty beaches with new friends. Crashing kitchens and couches of friends known forever. Taking in science, seals and Molly Moon's with Mamo. (Re-)acquainting the kids with the joys of terriyaki, two minormountains, the ubiquity of hills.

(Best quote of the trip, from a walk with Henry: "Now here's something you don't see everyday: HILLS!")

I could say the same of the following steak. This steak is The Steak, the only steak I make, or at least the only one I return to. Steak is a special guest in our home, stuff of friends, gatherings and celebrations. Years ago, after botching several precious cuts, I stumbled upon Mark Bittman's grilled marinated flank steak. It was simple, and excellent, and worked like a charm, so much so I've never seen fit to look farther.

That was before my oldest was born. He turns twelve (!!!!!!!!!!!!) this coming week. Even eaten occasionally, that's a lot of steak.

What we're talking about, here, is flank steak, steeped in a bath of lime, soy, garlic and ginger. I've adjusted a bit over the years, upping the aromatics, pinning down the salt and pepper, portioning the meat to better soak up its drink. Lately, I've taken to using strip steak, another flavorful, well-marbled, grill-friendly cut. Also, I've increased the marinating time slightly. Bittman suggests 30-60 minutes. I prefer 12-24 hours.

Soused.

After spending the night in this heady brew, said steak is arranged on a medium-hot grill. A lacquering-caramelizing kind of thing happens, the marinade's salts and sugars getting jiggy with the meat's ordinary Maillard. Meanwhile, the interior gently cooks/smokes, taking on that incomparable grilled beef goodness.

(An aside: I've broiled. I've seared. I've shaken my head. I wish it weren't so, but it's just not the same. Grill or bust; stove and oven won't do. I now consider this late-spring-through-early fall food.)

The finished steak is fluent in lime, its citrus squinch counterpoint to beef's buttery point. Ginger's sweet warmth is felt throughout, as is garlic's rich, nutty baritone. The soy does double-duty, seasoning the meat, while cheering on the beef's inherent umami.

All of which is to say, this is no shy steak. If marinade-as-veneer is what you are after, gauzy flavor, whiffs and hints, then this is not the path for you. If, however, you take your steak gutsy, schooled in sparkle and zip and oomph, then may I suggest one fine candidate? It may not forever be your one and only. But if you're anything like me, it may be a few decades before you tire of it.

(Oh, and the camera?

After days in the dog house, a dedicated googling/trouble-shooting session revealed a likely jammed shutter. Flip, toggle, snip, snap, and she roared back to life, *click!*.

I almost always double this, as leftovers are nearly better than first-overs. Think cold slices stuffed into sandwiches, or scattered throughout salads, or fried up with peppers and onions, fajita-style. (Completely excellent.) Or eaten, standing, in front of the fridge, fork in one hand, smile in the other. Besides, the grill's already going, and when did anyone ever complain about "leftovers" when suffixed with "steak"?

I grill on a standard-issue, charcoal-fueled black Weber kettle. Please adjust grilling times and techniques to your chosen kit.

Combine all ingredients, except steak, in a shallow casserole (I use an 8 x 13" Pyrex), and stir to dissolve sugar and salt. If using flank steak, slice into 3-4 pieces, each 4-6" across. Set steak in marinade, swoosh around a bit, and flip over, such that both sides have met with the marinade. Refrigerate steak and marinade in the casserole, at least 4 hours, ideally overnight.

The next day, 30 minutes before dining, fill a chimney starter with charcoal, and light. Remove steak from refrigerator, and set aside, to take off the chill. When charcoal is gray and smoldering, 15-20 minutes, empty onto one side of grill, banking coals to create hot and moderate zones. Return grate, replace lid, and let grate heat until hot, 5 minutes. Carefully, using tongs, arrange steaks on the hot side of the grill, then let them sit, undisturbed, 3-4 minutes. After 3 minutes, check the undersides: you're looking for an easy release, good color, and respectable grill marks. (If steaks begin to char or flare up, nudge them toward the cooler zone.) When steaks release easily and show color (3-5 minutes, depending on size and thickness of steak), flip steaks and sear the other side, another 2-3 minutes. I tend toward a medium-well steak, and so at this point, move steaks over to the cooler zone for a few minutes, to finish cooking. Your choice.

When steaks are done to your likeness, remove to a platter, and cover with foil. Allow to rest, 15 minutes, then thinly slice, against the grain, and plate with their juices.

2010.10.06

I don't sew. I've mentioned this. But I'm not sure I've adequately underscored, italicized, capitalized and punctuated the point. I try to refrain from mulitple (lines of) exclamation points, so suffice it to say: I really don't sew.

I don't sew the way some New Yorkers don't cook. I don't mean the weekend kitchen warriors or the Dean-and-DeLuca assemblers. I mean the ones who consider their fridge a double AA and Viognier storage facility. Who do not own a frying pan, or for that matter, any pan. Who maintain a complete library of take-out menus, annotated and alphabetized, and stored in their oven.

I am not feigning humble, here. I don't mean I've not yet mastered zipper insertion, or am stuck in square-block quilt territory, or that I sometimes cheat with the iron-in stuff when pants need hemming. Pants that need hemming are sent promptly packing. Shirt lost a button? Salvation Army, stat. I do windows. I don't do buttons. Because, you know, I just don't sew.

This is ridiculous.

You have no idea.

It's ridiculous because I come from serious sewing stock. My mom sews. Wait, no, my mom sews. She sews street clothes for work, jaw-dropping jackets and perfectly tailored skirts. She made my wedding dress, a silk dupioni stunner, dense with embroidery, detailed to the nines. She sews eighteenth-century ball gowns and Edwardian confections and whip-smart walking suits from 1908. Her seams alone are so spectacular, she could wear any of it inside out, and still elicit mad applause. She once accidentally won herself a two-week trip to Europe, purely on the basis of her French Handsewing skills. They didn't know the half of it. I don't know from French Handsewing.

It's ridiculous because I speak fluent sew. Naturally, given my upbringing. I know thread count. I don't use scissors without permission. I can tell at a glance my natural fibers from my artificials. I always check a couch for pins before sitting. I adore a bias cut's fetching drape and the dazzling light-catching ways of linen and believe ironing boards to be living room furniture, equals at least to TVs and sofas. Not that I apply any of this.

Then there's the (not-so-small) matter of Stash. You sewers, you know what I'm talking about. Piles, stacks, boxes of fabric. Upholstery-weight remnants to cover some pillows and five yards of a fine William Morris-esque bark cloth and a sweet pink swath of vintage wool challis, with an all-over white high-wheel bicycle print. I've got navy and cream checked silk taffeta and a half-dozen flannels for little pajamas and linens and cottons and the best of intentions.

And projects. Obviously. Why else have a Stash? I've got curtains in Zoë's room that need six more inches and three more rooms that are crying out for drapes and two chairs I adore but which sorely want slipcovers. To name just a few. And to sidestep, for a moment, complete lack of skill. And, oh yeah, overhwhelming dread.

The thing is, I sewed a bit as a kid, mini-skirts and calico bonnets for my dolls. I loved those dolls. I hated those clothes. Every piece of the process left me loopy with angst. Sewing's precise, and I don't do precise. Not surprisingly, every garment was a mess. I despised basting, I loathed pressing, I had no patience at all for turning fine seams. Don't get me started on tearing them out.

(I can't follow a recipe to save my life, either, but food's so much more forgiving this way. And whether, in the end, you eat it or toss it, all evidence has vanished by the next day. Genius.)

Still. When you move totes of cloth cross-country, the "I'll get to it soon" argument wears a little thin. When the bill of lading also lists one vintage Bernina, an antique sewing table, two pairs scary-sharp Ginghers, and a half-dozen Oliver + S patterns (generous bequests, all, of a certain sewing ace), decades-long procrastination looks, well. I love a good euphemism. Let's stick with ridiculous.

So, this past January, I finally bit the bullet. It was Fifth Birthday Eve, and a certain caped crusader was without a cape, and I had an old wrap skirt that was nearly exactly right. If only someone were to move a button. So I showered myself with caffeine and encouragement (baby steps, SLURP, better late than never, GULP), and in the space of three hours, I did just that.

Five months later, I'd recovered. In May, I mended a sheet. Hooah.

I was on such a roll, in June I made pants. Honest-to-goodness shapeless toddler pants! They were too big and way crooked and the seams were crap fell apart in the wash. (Nani Iro makes up for all manner of flaws.) This didn't stop me from making the boy a red pair. Also deeply flawed. But the tiniest bit better. Both are back in the mending pile. (I have one now. Though I do nothing about it.) They may live there forever. I really don't care.

I don't care because I've gone back for more. Not a lot more, and not frequently. It's been weeks since my last Bernina date, and I'm still mustering the courage to meet up again. I am so not in love with sewing, still.

But I might, just maybe, be tip-toeing toward like. If I set aside, for a moment, the numb perforated thumb, the iron-crooked neck, the "don't measure, cut thrice" cussing, I admit it's a thrill to see the rocking chair cushion covered. It's been bare since before the baby was born. That would be the now-five-year-old "baby". That's a looooong time to look at bare naked batting. And it hardly seemed hard, then, to whip up another, even if it took me four hours to get started. Scraps? Scraps! A comforter cover. With seams that have survived four washes, already. It really needs buttons. Baby steps, baby steps.

The process, gah, it still drives me batty. So tedious, so fraught, just impossibly fiddly. But I can't help but be drawn to the practical factor, the way this can be re-purposed into That! There's a certain satisfaction in converting 2T shirts into jolly penants to celebrate a boy's first decade. And when you realize, around eleven, you've forgotten treat bags entirely, it's dang handy to knock six out, just like that. I'm so late to this party. Better late than never.

The same could be said of this salad, right now. I feel a little bad, mentioning it, seeing as the calendar reads October and the recipe reads "local tomatoes". Sorry. But the only alternative—sitting on it until next summer—seems downright irresponsible, and possibly criminal. Over here, we're still pulling down Sun Golds by the dozen, and if you (or your dealer) are too, lucky you! You're just three ingredients away from one humdinger of a meal.

This belongs to that lovely salad-as-meal category, which I've long loved for its speed and scrumptious ease. Better, it's a rare, perfectly-edited piece, each ingredient awfully vital, John-Ringo-George-Paul-style. Arugula's pepper plays off the buttery beef, which cozies up to the creamy blue like nobody's business. Toss in a heap of those sweet, small tomatoes, and a dijon dressing spiked with worcestershire, and you've got yourself some serious happy. Possibly, enough for a seam-ripping session. If I find the strength to test this theory, I will report back. Sooner or later.

I did what I usually do when I cook, which is to say read the recipe one day and re-created it from (faulty) memory, days later. Really, I'm a little allergic to precision. I was delighted with the results, and these are what you'll find below, but I'm sure Deb's original is at least as outstanding.

I used my cast iron grill pan, one of those bumpity, ridged numbers that's impossible to clean. I rarely use it, but the results were splendid, here. If you have one, us it. If not, a cast iron skillet indoors, or outdoor grill, will deliver great results. And if you answered "no" to A, B and C, you could absolutely broil the steak, directly under the element, a few minutes on each side.

Pat steak dry with paper towels, then season generously on both sides with 1/2 teaspoon salt and plenty of freshly ground pepper.

Wipe a grill pan's ridges with an oiled paper towel, then heat pan over high heat, several minutes, until nearly smoking. Place skirt steak strips on surface, and do not move for 5 minutes. Using tongs, flip steaks, and cook on reverse side 3 minutes, or until they reach desired degree of doneness. (If using a standard cast iron pan, add 1-2 Tbs. oil to the skillet, and proceed as above.) Remove steak to a plate, and let rest, tented with foil, 15 minutes, while assembling salad and dressing.

Arrange arugula, sliced tomatoes, and crumbled blue cheese on platter. Mix up vinaigrette, combining all ingredients in a lidded jam jar, and shaking vigorously to combine. Thinly slice steak, across the grain, and arrange over arugula. Pour any juices into the dressing, give a final shake, and drizzle half over salad. Serve with extra dressing on the side.

2010.01.22

You, this week, are five. Obviously, this is the post where I veer head-long into fiction, since I can see your six pound self clear as day, barely bigger than a roasting chicken. But let's suppose there's some truth to it. Let's just suppose I've lived a hand-full of years by your side, marveled at the boy you become half a decade out. Where and what and who are you then?

You are my never-ending story. I'm still awfully fond of Kingsolver and LaMott, Lahiri and Berry, but frankly, you leave 'em all in the dust, at least in the wildly entertaining department. Every errand ... school day ... tissue ... dinner ... is just a pesky ellipses between Chapters One and Twelve in your ongoing epic. The costumes, they come, they go, they evolve. (Who knew K'nex could pinch-hit as superhero gear?) But apparently the make-believe bit is here for the long haul. (Hip hooray!)

You are persistence, personified. You solve more problems before lunch than I solve in a month. Never you mind that this world values unraveling insurance snafus over engineering Lego droids. Same basic skills, my boy: focus, determination, flexibility, and a heaping double helping of humor. Your frustation runs high only because your ambitions run higher. The 'twain shall meet. I guarantee it.

You are my rattle and hum. You know noise, know the power of stomp, thump and thwack. You know good drama demands a soundtrack, know Star Wars would've been just a bunch of rinky-dink rockets dangling off monofilament, were it not for Williams' original score. Even though you've never seen it. Quiet and shhhhh top your Most Wanted Words list. And true, I dial down your volume, every now and again. But mostly, I sit one room over, enchanted. Charmed by the way you singsong all day, easy as inhale, unconscious as exhale. Delighted by the little lyrics and sweet soft melodies always drifting by, always different. Doubled over the choral dissonance, the "Me-ga-tron destroyed the world, and Op-ti-mus Prime saved it" set to Twinkle Twinkle.

You are my barrel of monkeys. Wiggling arms, tangled legs, all
spin, drape and hang. You scramble up the climbing tower and into the
river and between the couch cushions, quicker than quick. Whether
prepositions are your favorite part of speech remains to be seen, but
over, under, around and through are among your favorite parts of life.

You are the reason I need to learn a thing or three about ISO. I snap and snap and get back mostly blur. You are a spark plug, a coiled spring, a Tigger, a wonderful thing. (Especially, at least where film speed's concerned, when you're plumb tuckered.)

You are my truly, madly, deeply. You wear your heart on your sleeves, and your dungarees, and your hat and mittens too, weather permitting. I mean, really, who needs sad and glad when completely undone and over-the-moon slaphappy are ripe for the picking? Monochrome is nowhere in your palette, or your personality. Thank goodness.

You are my deep kindred spirit, front and center with silver linings and lemonade. When I accidentally shattered your superbot right before bedtime, I braced for outrage, got only shrugs. "I can re-build him, quick." And you did. When we somehow stumbled onto over-population over lunch, over the nifty trick of six billion plus of us on one single planet, you didn't pull a Pollyanna. You were solemn and serious and talked through solutions, sending clean water through "really reeeaaaally big" pipes, cloth napkins to go with our cloth wipe-up rags. Then added, "and mom, that means there are so many more people for us to meet!" Atta boy.

You are my betwixt and between. It's true, you can go from sweet and calm to Sturm und Drang in two siblings flat. You feel the squeeze, don't know how much the middle matters. Yet. (Hubs? PB&J? The Sun? Dude.)

You are my antennae. You greet the world with your fingertips, first, last and always. You are my constant reminder to poke and to prod and see hear and feel and enough with that reserved observation, already.

You are my Hole Is to Dig. We are planners and ponderers, the lot of us, up to our ears in The Implications. You are up to your elbows in Fun, Here, Now! Every walk is an obstacle course, every curb a cliff. Cracks are to dodge, sticks are to drag, "mud is to jump in and slide in and yell doodleedoodleedoo!" A sheep is to pet. Even if it pets you back.

You are my barley buddy, and a patient one at that. Even when we're in the car and on round ninety two of Raffi's Oats and Beans because your sister loves it so, you don't say "any more barley and I'll gag" (which is what I'm thinking), but "boy, I sure love barley." And in no time, I've forgotten all about the downside of Repeat and am pondering the upside of last night's leftovers. Suddenly, yesterday's braised beef has barley soup written all over it.

Now, it seems a little unfair, a touch bait-and-switch, to include a line like "3 cups leftover (anything)" in a recipe. Let's suppose I don't have a nice slump of tender braised beef in my fridge. What, pray tell, (this is me, were I you) shall I do then? Question mark. Exclamation point.Eh?!

Well, I often don't, and that's half the point here. A good barley soup, at least in my book, depends on a slew of good 'shrooms and a broth that's got backbone. Meat, meh. I make it at least as often without as with, and because of this, I depend heavily on a few flavor bombs.

So let's suppose you have nothing, save a yen for one swarthy, swashbuckling, beef-free barley soup. Here's what you do. First, you brown the bejeebers out of your onions and mushrooms. Next, get lazy, and frugal, and devilishly clever. Soak your dear, tiny heap of dried porcini in plenty of hot boiling water, and watch as that plain H2O becomes pure liquid gold. And then there's the soy. Well, soy squared. This part's a little unorthodox, but entirely wonderful. A dollop of miso and smidge of soy sauce improve this soup, exponentially. They leave no fingerprints, just richness and roundness and sultry smart shadows. Umami, in other words, in spades. Which is why, after "3 cups braised beef", I write "optional". And mean it.

Of course, let's just suppose you do want the full package, the beef and the barley, both. Nothing's simpler, just sear and forget, especially on a wet Saturday when you're already indoors, knocking off chores. Plus you can count yourself brilliant, since you've queued up a half week's worth of dinner in one go. My standby brisket takes twenty minutes, tops. This week I tried David Tanis' take, and can't get it out of my mind. Or use your splattered-page favorite. Whatever. What matters is that the beef (chuck or brisket) is melting (braised or oh-so-slow-roasted) and accompanied, if at all possible, by a rich wobbly cup of its own reduced juices. This way is very nice, too. Especially when eaten in the company of a certain fine somebody who, yes, I see, is now five.

Mushroom Barley Soup, with or without BeefYield: 6-8 generous servings

Like any soup, this is more suggestion than stern instruction. I made it this way this week; I'll make it another next time. Add peas, up the beef, swap out carrots for parsnips, and so it goes. As long as you have a swaggering stock, you're golden.

About those porcini... they sound a little shi shi, and their per pound price will make your eyes bug out. But here's the thing: a heaping cup weighs maybe two ounces, so divide the price dramatically. And in those few ounces is a heaping huge wollop of flavor, worth every penny. Finally, if you're using the beef, you could skip the porcini. Sort of. Technically.

Boil the 6 cups of water. Place dried porcini in a large, heat-proof bowl. Pour boiling water over porcini, and let sit at least 20 minutes, or up to 4 hours. After reviving, remove mushrooms with a slotted spoon, chop roughly, and set aside. Don't throw away the soaking water; this is your liquid cold. When the time comes to add it to your soup (see below), handle lightly and pour gently, so that any grit settled on the bottom stays behind.

In a heavy soup pot or dutch oven, heat oil over medium-high heat. When shimmering, add onions, and caramelize well, 8-12 minutes, stirring every so often to prevent burning. When onions are gold in the centers and going chocolate at the edges, tip in the fresh, quartered mushrooms, plus a half teaspoon salt. Stir to coat mushrooms in the oiled onions, cover, and let cook 5-7 minutes, until the mushrooms have released their juices. Remove lid, and continue cooking, 3-5 minutes, until you hear mushrooms begin to sizzle. Now you're beginning to get a good sear. Continue cooking mushrooms another 5-10 minutes, stirring only occasionally, until you see many sides going golden and freckled.

Add tomato paste and paprika to onion/mushroom mixture, stir, and cook 30 seconds. Add wine, scraping up brown bits as you go, a minute or so. Add miso and soy, and stir to dissolve.

Take a few moments to really taste and season. There are so many layers of flavor here (how intense was your miso? how salty your juices?). At this juncture, I usually find it needs a bit more salt, but not much; a wee dash of vinegar, for balance; and a sprinkling of green, if I have it.

2009.12.04

There's just not a lot of cooking that happens in my kitchen, this time of year. I've learned this. I know this. I know there will be too many other things worth doing. Not needing doing. We don't much go in for the merry mayhem angle. But even without holiday plays or popcorn fundraisers or groaning trolley caravans at WalMart, 5 am Friday (always, always without that), December runs at another tempo.

I must, for example, make time enough to eat my body weight in satsumas. Every year, I think this is it. This is the year they'll not just look like wax fruit but taste like it, too. Nothing can live up to that shar pei peel, those haberdashery leaves. And every year, they are so audaciously tart and pucker-perfect, they dazzle me all over again.

Then, there are friends coming round. New friends, fellow ex-pats, with whom we share a Thanksgiving feast. Plain old play dates, to keep it real. And to keep me honest. (Because honestly? If it were always only me and the kids, I might never vacuum. Never ever.) Old friends who've traveled clear cross the country with us, and still come up smiling.

Plus, its always sensible to keep one eye on the weather. Fall has three weeks left on its lease yet, but you just never know.

And once I get past the complete weirdness of a Fraser Fir from -- you might want to sit down for this -- the Blue Ridge Mountains, there's The Running of The Bulls to orchestrate. I guess, technically, it's The Trimming of The Tree, lights and baubles and all that. But somewhere between sweet talking three rusty screws into replacing an entire root system, and turning away a prospective bear who's taken up residence under the lower branches, well. It always feels a little more Pamplona than Rockwell. Though with less goring. And lots more sparkles.

And then, I don't know, I've just learned to leave room for those little curve balls December does so well. Like launching a house-wide Podhunt for my dearly departed Classic, the one with Bing and Elvis and roasted chestnuts fresh off the open fire. Why, Apple, why must you make them so dang tiny? I mean, seriously. I never lost my high school boom box. Not once. And it could hold both my Black CelebrationandPurple Rain tapes. Also, there's remembering to allow extra minutes in our morning, to jingle bells and find mittens and open advent windows (The awful waxy chocolate ones? Three raving fans, right over here). And puzzling over how to hang stockings from our pristine, unfamiliar mantle. Or even whether to, since we'll be out the door before six Christmas morning. To make it home(!!!) before supper, to feast this time with family. And about that trip planning...

I'll get around to rental cars, really I will. But I might squeak in just a few cookies, first. I never said anything about not baking. (More on that next week. Promise.)

It's a full month, my friends. That's just the way it is. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Which is why I find myself running down to the deep freeze in the weeks leading up to this one, stashing away pans of this and tubs of that. I've parted the turkey out into enchiladas and pot pies; we'll be eating Thanksgiving through Christmas. There'll be pasta with last summer's sauce, probably weekly. Probably popcorn, too. And certainly, this chili.

This chili is nothing special. I've seen special chili. Like the blue ribbon recipe a friend shared recently that ran something like this: "Step 1: Marinate 4 pounds pork shoulder in first 13 ingredients for 2 days." There were several more Steps to Part 1. There were four Parts to the Recipe. That was championship chili, award-winning excellent, and I plan to make it someday. Maybe when Zoë starts college.

Until then, there's this. This is not that chili. Not even close. For one thing, it's good. Not crown-me-with-glory great -- don't even think about bringing this to an office chili cook-off -- but deeply, dependably good. For another, it's simple. Twenty minutes of prep work plus an hour to simmer itself into a warmly spiced, mighty savory, fork-thick blend of beef and beans. Which -- because isn't this the entire point of chili? -- become downright fetching under a heap of sharp cheddar and chopped cilantro and creamy greek yogurt. Though I'm sure it would cozy up nicely to minced onions and jalapenos, if that's more your style. Saltines are required. I think it's federal law.

And while there's no actual mandate against cooking this month (I see you, seven butternuts, winking at me from the garage), I do love a good fallback position. And in fall and winter and this busy little ridge running right in between, I think this is as good a position as any.

The original called for a half dozen jalapenos, chopped and added with the garlic. I am a one-star wimp; I adore spice, but bow out when it comes to serious, tongue-searing heat. (I also appreciate that 2 out of 3 kids enjoy this.) The following makes a nicely spiced but not hot chili; feel free to amend with true chili heat to suit. I imagine a chipotle or two would be fiendishly good here.

This yields a generous pot, enough to feed 6 starving adults, or 8-10 hungry ones. And still, I always double it. It freezes beautifully, like most soups and stews. But unlike most soups, which always seem a little sad somehow, the second time around, and often leave me wishing I hadn't, with this chili I've only ever wished I had a larger vat.

Heat oil in dutch oven or other heavy large pot over medium-high heat. Add onions; sauté until brown, about 6 minutes. Add garlic; sauté 1 minute, until fragrant. Add beef; sauté until brown, breaking up with back of spoon, about 5 minutes. Add chili powder, cumin, paprika and salt, then mix in tomatoes with juices, beans, and broth; bring to boil.

Cool slightly. Refrigerate uncovered until cold, then cover and refrigerate 2 days, or freeze. Delicious on day 1; even better on days 2 and 3. Freezes beautifully. Reheat on the stove if you have the time (gently bring to a steady simmer), or in the microwave if you don't. Which is why you made chili in the first place, right?